Wrong
by Sunshine304
Summary: One year after Sherlock's death Lestrade holds a press conference to inform the public that Sherlock Holmes was not a fake. He did expect bored journalists and irritating questions. He didn't expect the severe sense of déjà-vu he experiences when each and every mobile in the room goes off with a text alert at the same time. No spoilers for S3.


„How many out there?"

"About fifteen, I'd say," came Anderson's reply.

Lestrade drained his cup of bad instant coffee and took a fortifying breath.

"Well, it used to be much worse. At least now Sherlock's name will be cleared without any room left for doubt. Let's get this over with."

The aftermath of Sherlock's suicide had been a catastrophe for Scotland Yard, and for Lestrade in particular. He had lost someone he'd considered a friend (no matter what the man himself would've had to say about that), and he'd gotten hell at the Yard for ever having turned to the consulting detective in the first place. They'd let Lestrade keep his job (and he'd wondered whether Mycroft Holmes might have had something to do with that), but he and his team had been ordered to review every single case that had been solved with Sherlock's help. Never mind that Sherlock simply couldn't have been responsible for all the cold cases he'd solved anyway, because many of them had been more than twenty years old, but the superintendent had been adamant about it. Lestrade had kept his spirits up by remembering with schadenfreude John's well-aimed punch that had ended with the superintendent's broken nose.

They'd taken a year to review the cases but now they were finally done. Today, exactly one year to the day since Sherlock had jumped, they were holding a press conference to announce that all the cases held up, that Sherlock hadn't staged any of them and the accusations against him had been false (or rather "A fucking load of bullshit", as Lestrade liked to say). Of course, Lestrade had been sure this would be the outcome, but he was glad about the proof nonetheless, and that it was over now. Time to close the door on that dark part of his life, and try to move on.

The team that had been assigned to review the cases wasn't Lestrade's original one. Donovan had asked for a transfer, which had been granted. She now worked in Edinburgh. Lestrade didn't hold a grudge against her, but continuing to work with her would have been awkward. Maxwell had changed teams although he would've liked to stay on. They had gotten Sergeant Stacey Hopkins as a replacement, who was young and enthusiastic. Surprisingly, Anderson had stayed and been a big help during the investigation. It had started with a guilty conscience, or that's what Lestrade assumed, but the longer they went over all those cases the more Anderson turned into a supporter of Sherlock.

Perhaps it was because he could now see Sherlock's brilliance without it being overshadowed by all the acerbic comments (and one had to admit, that brilliance was scintillating), but they never talked about Anderson's complete change of heart. Just like they weren't talking about the fact that there were so many more unsolved cases now.

Lestrade and Anderson left the office and prepared to face the vultures from the press. Interest in the scandal surrounding Sherlock Holmes had died down quite soon, overridden by newer and more interesting gossip. But the name still rang a bell, and so there were quite a few journalists waiting for them in the press conference room. As they sat down, Lestrade looked at the expectant faces before them. Some looked bored, in the numb "been there done that" way some long-standing journalists had, but most of them were obviously interested in the potentially controversial news. God, how he wanted to get this over with.

"Good morning. We're holding this press conference to inform you about the most recent development regarding the late Sherlock Holmes, and the accusations brought up against him. We have reviewed every single case that Sherlock Holmes was ever involved in and we can state with absolute conviction that he was not responsible for perpetrating any of them. He was accused of having staged those crimes to make himself look like a genius detective and to have invented a master criminal named 'Moriarty'. This is wrong. He did not plan or stage any of the crimes. He was not a fake."

Lestrade paused to let this sink in, but before any of the journalists could raise a question, he continued, "James Moriarty was a real person. Richard Brook, however, was not. He was invented by Moriarty to discredit Holmes and to make the press turn against him – with impressive success." A humourless smile. "Holmes was cut off from his detective work as a result, which was his livelihood. All of this culminated in him jumping from the roof of St. Bartholomew's Hospital, as you might recall. "

One of the journalists butted in, "You said 'Moriarty _was_ a real person'. What's that supposed to mean? Is he dead?"

Of course someone would be awake enough to catch that.

"Moriarty was a crimelord, responsible for some of the most horrific crimes not only in London, but in the entire United Kingdom. His reach appears to have extended overseas as well. His body was found a few months ago. It is likely that one of his rivals got to him, but the investigation is still running, so we can't give you any more details at the moment."

This was mostly true. Mycroft had informed Lestrade shortly after Sherlock's death that they had also found James Moriarty's body. Mycroft had heavily implied that he expected the police to keep quiet about it until the investigation regarding Sherlock's involvement had been closed.

"Concerning Sherlock Holmes, we can say that the only thing he _did_ was help us solve some of the most perfidious crimes we have seen in London over the last decade. He also solved many of our cold cases so that families and friends of the victims could finally find closure."

Saying it like that, Sherlock really sounded like a good man. Lestrade would've liked a chance at actually saying it to him.

One journalist in the second row asked, "Shouldn't the police manage to solve the crimes on their own without getting help from outsiders, no matter how clever those outsiders may be?"

Lestrade thought it was a good thing that he had enviable self-control (years of working with Sherlock Holmes did that to you), as insulting the woman really wouldn't help.

"Firstly, the police regularly get help from 'outsiders' to solve crimes; eyewitnesses come to mind. They can be very valuable, because most crimes aren't straightforward. Secondly, Sherlock Holmes was not simply 'clever', he was a genius. He had a very specific skill set that let him see everything, even the smallest details, and connect those details correctly. With one glance at you he could tell what you had for breakfast, what you did for a living and how your marriage was going. He could've had any job in the world, he could've been a scientist, a politician, anything. But he _chose_ to help solve crimes."

Anderson nodded approvingly next to him, and Lestrade sighed. Not long now, a few more questions and they were done.

A short man in the first row spoke up. "After Holmes' death there was a lot of speculation concerning why he killed himself. Back then, neither his partner John Watson nor any of the police that he'd worked with answered questions as to his reason. Can you now say something about that? You earlier implied that it was the public turning against him…" He trailed off, obviously hoping Lestrade would pick up his train of thought.

How Lestrade would've liked to throw them all out. But he had to answer.

"Well, I implied it because it seemed quite obvious. He was never much interested in other people's opinions about him, as long as he could do his job. But the press grabbed every opportunity to put him down. You might have noticed that today is the one-year anniversary of this great man's, Sherlock Holmes', death. And he committed suicide because the press took away the only thing that really meant something to him: the ability to _do_ his job!"

Lestrade's voice had steadily risen as he spoke, but he couldn't help it – the ignorance surrounding him made him incredibly angry. John would've likely punched them all by now. There were some indignant murmurs from the journalists, but they were suddenly interrupted by a multitude of beeping sounds. Automatically, everyone in the press seats took out their mobile phones. And then they all stared, confusion written on their faces.

Lestrade froze. This couldn't be happening. He had a surreal and frightening sense of déjà-vu, recalling that case with the murderous cabby from three years ago. Perhaps he was hallucinating. But Anderson had taken his phone out as well and was staring at the screen. Then he murmured, "Sir... sir, look at your phone."

Lestrade felt like he was in a trance as he pulled his mobile phone from his pocket and looked at his messages. One new text. He opened it. Read. Stared.

"Wrong!"

No.

Nononono.

Another beep. Only his phone this time. He opened the next text.

"But thank you anyway. SH"

His phone slid from his hand and clattered onto the table. Lestrade couldn't process this, he couldn't think. Anderson might have said something to him, but he didn't hear a word of it. Every sound was muted and that small, still working part of his brain told him he perhaps was in shock, it could very well be – and then there was beeping again. In the room. Everyone else's phones were going off again. Angry exclamations and an outraged "Is this a fucking _joke_?! Who is calling us _idiots_?!" made it through to him.

Lestrade felt himself grinning. He looked at Anderson, who stared at him as if he'd gone completely mad. Well, Lestrade wouldn't judge him for that, his grin likely was a bit hysterical. He started to laugh. A loud, full-belly laugh that he hadn't used in quite a while. Because why shouldn't this be true? Fuck it, if anyone could pull off faking his own death, it would be Sherlock bloody Holmes, the bastard.

The journalists were now all staring at him incredulously. Yes, perhaps he should say something.

"Ladies and gentlemen, here's your headline for tomorrow: 'Genius Sherlock Holmes faked suicide'. Because if you should know one thing about Sherlock Holmes it's this: he will always find a way to shock you. That is all." Lestrade grabbed his phone, stood up and exited the room, ignoring the shout behind him.

Anderson wasn't far behind.

"Do you really think that… that's him? That he _faked_ his suicide?"

"What I know is that he's the only one who _could_ do it, pull such a stunt off, and right now I don't know whether to hate him or love him," Lestrade said as they walked down the corridor towards his office. "That bloody bastard!"

"But why would he do it?" Anderson asked, confused. "I mean, he never was the most considerate person, but even Sherlock Holmes wouldn't do that… make his best friend watch. The circumstances were shit, yes, but still…"

"Sherlock never did something without a reason. Of course, normally no one but His Highness himself understood that reason, but to him it all made perfect sense. Usually led to him doing something stupid and rash, though, so I guess this'll be more of the same, just multiplied by a thousand or so." Lestrade's phone gave a little beep again and he checked the text message.

"I can confirm that Sherlock is alive. The legal matters are currently being handled. I apologise for the inconvenience. Sherlock will provide appropriate compensation by solving mundane cases for the foreseeable future, I'm sure. Mycroft Holmes"

Lestrade gave a brief laugh and send a short "Thanks", while Anderson asked, "Is that him?"

"No, it's his brother confirming that Sherlock actually _is_ alive and that we can torture him with boring cases for the next few months, as compensation. They're such a loving family."

Anderson chuckled. "I still can't quite believe it. What now? Do we wait until he shows up and acts like nothing's happened?"

They had reached Lestrade's office and entered. Lestrade started to make some coffee. A strong one, that's what he needed. And a cigarette, but he would be damned if he was going to start again because of Sherlock Holmes. He'd been doing so well.

"Well, we've still got some work to do here. If he hasn't shown up by the end of my shift I'll drive over to shout a bit at him, likely punch him in the face, too. I hope he's told John, or he might get an extra punch." He looked at his phone, read the two messages by Sherlock again and then thumbed out an answer.

"I hope you know you have a punch coming the next time I see you."

The answer was almost immediate.

"Don't be boring. John has already done that. SH"

Lestrade grinned. Life was definitely looking up.


End file.
